


Brought to Heel

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes needs data to work with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brought to Heel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabidsamfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/gifts).



> Written for rabidsamfan as an extra part of the acd_holmesfest gift exchange. The prompt was "clothing." This is where I went. For two other takes on the same prompt, you can read the entire collection [here](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/27227.html).

 

My mind whirls, one possibility crashing in on top of another, thoughts tumbling senselessly without anchor. I need data, facts to work with, but there is nothing here to help me with the problem consuming me.

I told Watson once that without sufficient stimulation, my mind tears itself apart like an engine without oil. My friend thought I was speaking metaphorically, but I am not the writer of romantic tales he is. Stagnation is as dangerous to me as the lack of water is to a fish. I am not designed to thrive in placid, ordinary existence. I need occupation for my mind. Cases, chemistry experiments, music: all can serve that function and give me that essential combination of distraction, interest, and stimulation that allows me to scintillate instead of shatter. Without them, I flounder. It is better with Watson, true, far better than it has ever been; he is an endless puzzle himself, far more fascinating than he has any idea of. He calls himself my friend – is my friend, however little I deserve it at times, and like the steadfast, loyal man he is, he provides yet another bulwark between me and the stifling depths that drag me down. Yet even with Watson’s best efforts, he cannot always help me. And there is nothing and no one here to help me now.

My hands seize desperately on a nearby object. I force my eyes to focus upon it, and my mind automatically starts processing what I see.

 _A brown boot. A man’s brown boot, leather, hastily wiped to remove the worst of the muck and stains that recently fouled it, but well maintained before that. Waxed linen laces newer than the boot itself (boot styles vary less than other articles of clothing but this is not new, possibly even several years old), replaced recently, but not so recently that traces of the preferred method of tying (double bow) haven’t started wearing a readable pattern into the weave. A consistent knot, placed in almost exactly the same place every time: a methodical man with ingrained habits. A careful man, to have replaced the original laces before they could wear to the point of failure (wear pattern on the hooks and grommets insufficient to have worn through the originals): a man who knows the importance of his footgear._ I turn the boot automatically, fingers absorbing the texture of the grit and grime that foul the wet leather, noting the composition automatically, comparing it to the feel of a thousand other samples of soil and mud and detritus. _Wear pattern on the sole indicates a relatively even stride, but eccentricities in two of the treads suggest either occasional heavy unbalanced loads (not borne out by the leather above, which would have buckled in different creases) or a weakness in one leg that is compensated for by the other and a change in gait…_

I resist the urge to hurl the boot away from me. It tells me nothing, _nothing_ I do not already know, nothing I _need_ to know –

The door opens, and I am on my feet before I know that I am standing. The local doctor’s face is tired, but his lips are relaxed, and there’s a satisfied air to his manner that releases some of my inner tension before he ever says a word. I only listen to his description and prognosis with half an ear, most of my attention fixed on the room behind him, straining to detect any sounds or indications of the state within. At the first possible moment I shake his hand, utter the appropriate thanks, and edge past him, through the door and inside the chamber.

He is dreadfully pale, but familiar eyes are open and meet mine in hazy recognition. His moustache twitches with the hint of a relieved smile. “Holmes. You’re all right?”

“Perfectly, my dear fellow,” I assure him even as I take in every detail, every wretched indication of what he has endured, every grateful sign of his continued survival. A slight frown creases his brow, and I hastily move forward where it will be easier for him to see me. “I was never in any danger.” A lie, one we both know, but an expected one, an offer of comfort in its own way. I reach out to smooth the coverlet, and only then realize that I still have his boot clutched in my hand.

“Ah,” Watson says, his eyes catching on the one lone boot dangling uselessly from my fingers, the only one recovered with him: the other lost, as he too so easily could have been. “Good. For you owe me a new pair of boots.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted Nov 3, 2013 as part of a three-part collection of stories for rabidsamfan, [Head to Toe](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/27227.html).


End file.
